


Thanatos in Your Palm

by BelladonnaLee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Analgesia, Angst, Coffee Shops, Drowning, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 20:23:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1360570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leading an ordinary life as a barista in a Muggle cafe, Draco becomes Harry's new tenant. He has no intention to meddle in his landlord's business—until one night an injured Harry confesses to him that he can no longer feel pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanatos in Your Palm

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt** Self Prompted  
>  **Title:** Thanatos in Your Palm  
>  **Author:** ???  
>  **Pairing(s)/Character(s):** Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Kreacher, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger  
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Warnings (Highlight to view):** * See LJ Post*  
>  **Word Count:** ~14,000  
>  **Summary:** Leading an ordinary life as a barista in a Muggle cafe, Draco becomes Harry's new tenant. He has no intention to meddle in his landlord's business—until one night an injured Harry confesses to him that he can no longer feel pain.  
>  **Author Notes:** Thank you very much to Josephinestone for being my beta. Also, thank you very much to the mod for organising this fest. I interpreted the idea of hurt in the literal sense, and this is the result.

**Thanatos in Your Palm**

The window view of the grey bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place could have sprung from a gritty urban novel. Weeds sprouted from pavement cracks and swayed in the gentle wind. Across the street, a rusty fence and an unruly hedge concealed someone's secret garden. Some distance away was a run-down building that might have been the lair for drug addicts. Nevertheless, the golden dusk lent a brush of warmth to the otherwise desolate street. Grimmauld Place was not where Draco Malfoy would choose to settle in, but the rent was cheap, and the room was not bad.

Turning away from the window, Draco walked around the room and examined everything in turn. Instead of a claustrophobic chamber built for gloom and shadows, the bedroom was spacious and comfortable looking. Grey walls set off the polished ebony furniture and flowing white curtains; a dash of silver accent prevented the grey tone from descending into monotony. The furnishings were new; no ghost would lurk in the cupboard or dangle from the black rustic chandelier.

 _No ghost except this one._ Draco cast a glance at the figure standing at the door like a prison guard. The oversized black jumper did not flatter the man's sinewy frame, but it matched his raven hair and black-rimmed glasses. The man was a shadow but for his pale skin and emerald eyes.

"This is fine."

Harry Potter strode into the room and placed a silver key on the nightstand. "You'll need this to get into the house." His gaze darted to the luggage on the floor. "I'll leave you to your unpacking then. When you are done, come down to the kitchen. Kreacher is making roast beef."

Once Harry's footfalls faded away, Draco picked up the key and held it to the light. The glittering silver was warm between his fingers, as though registering him as the rightful owner. Other than the vaults in Gringott, the wizarding folk rarely adopted locks and keys in their everyday life. It seemed his landlord did not appreciate uninvited visitors.

Dinner with his former rival was an awkward affair; neither he nor Harry felt inclined to talk. In the background, Kreacher the house-elf bustled about while humming a tune. The long table, extended from one end of the kitchen to the other end, was a reminder that once upon a time, this kitchen and Kreacher served a family much larger than two people.

While waiting for the soup to cool, Draco studied his new landlord, who started on the soup with no regard of how hot it was. Was he famished to the point where he did not mind burning his tongue? Frowning, Draco stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth and observed his old classmate some more.

Harry had taken off his glasses, and without them he seemed more vulnerable than usual. There was a trace of gauntness on his boyish face, the only visible evidence of his recent misadventure. Two months ago, during a routine assignment, the building he was investigating collapsed while he was still inside. For some time he remained in the hospital, though few people knew what kind of injury he had sustained.

When Harry gave him a look, Draco set aside his bemusement and picked up the spoon. The soup was better than he had expected; perhaps he could look forward to the next course after all. "Are you still on medical leave?"

"I'm sitting at a desk in the office, so in a way it's like a medical leave." The bitterness in Harry's voice was so palpable that Draco could almost taste it. "Sorry, you don't need to hear this."

"It's refreshing to hear it from the man in question for once. You know how the press loves to put things through a grinder and mould the bits into whatever shape they want." Draco dipped the bread into the soup. "Any rules I should follow while I'm living here? No drinking? No smoking? No striptease in the drawing room after dark?"

An indignant huff came from the direction of the oven, where Kreacher was checking on the roast beef. His dark-haired master, on the other hand, looked amused. "I'm sure you can behave when you want to."

* * * * * * *

Everything was fine for the first week or so, but soon after a pattern began to emerge. Every few days, Harry would return home late at night, sporting a bruise here and a cut there. While Harry treated his own wounds, Kreacher, who seemed accustomed to the sight, would scold his master for being careless. No one gave the new tenant an explanation. Since Harry always seemed fine the next day, Draco did not ask any questions.

As Draco settled into the somewhat disquieting life at 12 Grimmauld Place, the old dream began to haunt him once more. In the bathroom lit by a handful of candles, he was pushing someone's head into the water-filled bathtub. Like a fish on the chopping board his victim thrashed around in the tub, his fingers clawing at anything that could deliver him from his fate. A moment later, the victim's body slackened, and the splashing stopped.

 _Ah, I did it again,_ Draco murmured as he stared at the face in the water: blond hair, grey eyes, pale face. He had drowned the white fish again, and the fish's name was Draco Malfoy.

With much effort he dragged himself out of the swamp of dreams and woke up in a different kind of darkness: a darkness penetrated by the orange streetlight outside the window. The sound of water ebbed away from his mind and returned to whatever subconscious pit it came from, leaving silence in its wake. The house was quiet as though uninhabited. The loud pounding of his heart was almost a blasphemy on this tranquil night.

Sleep did not come to him again. Something gnawed at his inside and tore a hole in his stomach. He was hungry for something other than food and sleep. After tossing and turning for half an hour, he lost his patience and got out of bed. For some time he stood in front of the wardrobe, his hand on the handle. A while later, he changed his mind and went down to the kitchen.

Without the old house-elf shuffling about and banging on pots, the kitchen looked forlorn after dark. Taking care not to wake his fellow housemate, Draco put the kettle on and searched for tea in the cupboard. The sight of the overflowing spice cabinet made him smile. Kreacher was fussy about taste, but his master was more interested in whether something was edible or not.

The opening of the front door interrupted his thought. His curiosity perked, Draco went to the hall and found a figure standing at the door. After a night of masochistic revelry, the master of the house had come home at last. Dirty and dishevelled, Harry had a bleeding lip, and his left shoulder appeared to be dislocated, for his arm hung stiffly at his side.

As soon as Harry noticed he was not alone, he whipped out his wand and aimed at Draco. There was neither hesitation nor hysteria in his action; his movement was precise and fluid as befitting a vigilant Auror.

Tension mounting upon him, Draco squinted at his landlord and assessed the situation. He could dive behind the wall for cover and grab a knife from the kitchen counter. Nevertheless, it would be a bad idea to provoke his opponent any further. In the end, he held up his hands. "I can understand why you have trouble finding a tenant."

Harry smiled an apologetic smile and put his wand away. "You are up early. I didn't know the cafe you work in opens at three in the morning. Maybe I heard it wrong when you told me where you work?"

"You can come over and have a cup of coffee. Not for free, of course." Draco lowered his hands and fixed his gaze upon Harry's dislocated shoulder. "That must hurt a lot."

For a moment, Harry seemed lost; several seconds later, his confusion morphed into realisation. "No, it doesn't hurt. I just can't move my arm, that's all." He explained. "I can't feel physical pain anymore, so this doesn't bother me much."

Before Draco could ask further, the sound of boiling water stole his attention away. Rushing into the kitchen, he moved the kettle out of the heat and turned off the stove. As Harry peeked at him from the doorway, Draco held up the kettle. "Where do you keep your tea?"

* * * * * * *

The new life that the master of the house had breathed into the rooms upstairs did not extend to the living room. With its worn Regency furniture, heavy black draperies and sun-bleached floral wallpaper, the room was the very image of an ancient family languishing in decay. It stirred up a mixture of nostalgia and resentment in Draco, for the ambience in this place reminded him too much of Malfoy Manor.

Thrusting aside the unpleasant memory, Draco sipped his tea and flipped through the Quidditch magazine that was left on the table. Beside him, Harry cast a spell to pop the joint back into place, and another spell to conjure a bag of ice for the shoulder. When he was done, Draco threw the magazine onto the table and turned to him.

"Are you going to confess, or am I supposed to ask?"

Unmindful of Draco's sardonic tone, Harry relaxed against the cushion and pressed the ice bag to his shoulder. "It started after the accident. I got well, and there's nothing physically wrong with me, but I lost my sense of pain. The Healers couldn't find the cause. My therapist thinks it might be related to PTSD. The accident triggered a defensive mechanism in my body to handle the stress, and for some reason my body doesn't return to normal afterwards."

Draco raised his eyebrows. He had no idea that Harry was seeing a psychotherapist; then again, considering Harry's past, it was not surprising that he felt the need to confide in a specialist—or more likely, his friends dragged him to see one.

"If you stab me in the back, I won't feel pain." Harry continued. "But I can feel there's something stuck in my back." He tilted his head at the cup in Draco's hand. "I can't tell if this tea is hot or cold. Hot and cold feel the same to me, except hot tea will burn my tongue, and I won't notice it unless someone tells me. It's inconvenient, but there's nothing I can do about it."

Leaning forward, Draco wrapped his hand around the cup of tea he had made for Harry. The ceramic emitted a shadow of warmth against his palm. Handing the cup to the bewildered Harry, he mumbled, "You can drink this. It won't burn your tongue, but I could be lying about that."

"Yeah, you could be." Contrary to his words, Harry drank a mouthful and let out an appreciative sigh. "I could never make tea like this. Maybe you should work in a tea shop instead of a cafe."

"You haven't tasted my coffee yet." Draco's gaze travelled along the curve of Harry's neck, lingered for a beat or two on the Adam's apple, and fixed at last upon the mouth. The blood on Harry's lip had darkened into a colour resembling charred flesh. "Okay, you can't feel pain, so you think it would be fun to get beaten up every so often?"

"Something like that." The vague response and averted eyes were enough to tell Draco that Harry did not want to talk about it—at least not to him.

Draco made a noncommittal sound and contemplated Harry's face: shaggy black hair framed a pleasing visage, and shapely lips pressed together in musing. The hunger inside him purred at the sight. "Have you tried the Cruciatus Curse? Who knows, it might cure your _deficiency_."

"Unlike you, I don't know of anyone around me who would be willing to do this. Besides, I can't cast the curse on myself, can I?" Harry replied in a playful tone, but there was an undercurrent in his green eyes, an unfathomable depth that lured Draco a little closer to the edge.

Following his instinct, Draco rubbed his thumb against the cut on Harry's lip, and his finger came away stained with crimson. "Would you like me to do it to you?" He offered in jest.

For some time Harry stared at Draco, yet instead of regarding him as a mad man, he seemed to be considering the offer in earnest. After taking a gulp of his tea as if it were liquid courage, he said, "All right. Do it to me. Throw a Cruciatus at me."

The most logical course of action would be to admit the offer was a foolish joke, a tease to needle his former schoolboy rival. Nevertheless, Draco, struck by a fit of insanity, licked the blood away and took on the challenge. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

Draco retrieved his wand from his room and followed Harry to the top floor. In contrast to the modern furnishings in Draco's room and the remnant of solemnity in the living room, Harry's bedroom was a study in sparseness. A mahogany bed and a matching nightstand occupied one end of the room; a wardrobe stood in the corner; and a mirror was fixed to the wall. The unfinished oak flooring and plain white walls added to the bleakness of the room.

Waving his wand in a continuous motion, Harry put up a ward in the room. Invisible walls were erected, and a muffled silence descended upon this prison that was cut off from the rest of the world. There would be no outside interference and no escape until the ward was lowered.

"Are you going to report me to the Ministry, Mr Auror?" Draco drawled while taking a few steps back.

"I don't want to wear a strait-jacket, so my answer is no." Leaving his glasses and his wand on the nightstand, Harry turned to Draco and closed his eyes. The composure he maintained in the face of impending torture was admirable to the point of disturbing. "I'm ready."

Draco mustered up his resolve and trained his wand at Harry, yet scenes from the past crept up on him like a snake sensing a prey nearby. Contorted bodies, piercing screams, bloodshot eyes rolling back into one's head, and beneath it all, horror and guilt mingled with relief and the thrill of the forbidden...

"Should I remind you how much we used to hate each other?" Harry's voice pulled Draco back to the present. "This is just an experiment. I need you to do this for me."

Gritting his teeth, Draco killed the flashback and muttered the incantation he had not uttered since the end of the war, _"Crucio!"_

Harry was thrown back against the wall before collapsing in a heap on the floor, writhing in pain. His scream pierced through the night and into Draco's mind. The experiment was a success; there was no need to keep the curse going anymore. Obeying Draco's will, the spell gave one last whimper and died. Nothing could be heard in the room other than the sound of heavy breathing. It took Draco a while to realise Harry was not the only one panting hard.

A burst of laughter erupted from the miserable figure huddled against the wall, startling Draco out of his wits. His body convulsing as though in a seizure, Harry was laughing like a man who had come to the realisation that his entire life was a joke.

Unable to look away from the figure shaking on the floor, Draco stayed silent and still, his feet rooted to the ground, and his wand arm fell to his side. Everything about Harry came crashing down upon him: the pointless rivalry, the hint of dark emotions peeking out from those brilliant green eyes, the soaring silhouette in the midst of the inferno, and the sloshing of water.

Draco could not tell whether he should be afraid for Harry or afraid of him. Had he broken Harry Potter, or was Harry Potter broken to begin with? As mental exhaustion doused what little remained of his tension, he crossed the room and stood over the man he no longer hated. "Did it hurt?"

When Harry lifted his head, his wan face was wet with tears and sweat, yet upon his lips was the smile of a child who had obtained the treasure he wanted most. "It hurt so much I wanted to kill you." There was a pause. "Thank you."

* * * * * * *

In the serene blue hour of dawn, last night's commotion could have been nothing more than a bad dream. In a daze Draco ate breakfast by himself and got ready for work. Passing into the dusky corridor, he looked up at the shadowy staircase. Nothing stirred above him, no creaking of the floorboard to indicate his landlord had emerged from his room. Leaving Harry to his much needed rest, Draco turned away and left for work.

The day flew by in a blur of roasted coffee and milky ferns floating on creamy latte. For some reason, Draco felt drained, and his mind barely registered what he was doing. The only thing he remembered was eyeing up several male customers with the blatant gaze of a vulture eyeing a dying man.

A rugged looking man came in fifteen minutes before closing time; he was one of the customers Draco had ogled at earlier. When Draco sauntered over to take the order, the man appraised him for a moment before ordering an espresso. Feeling an itch that was hunger in disguise, Draco smiled at the man and went to prepare the order.

After scribbling down the time and the name of a nearby pub, Draco brought the man his espresso and slipped him the note. The man gave Draco a sly look and pocketed the note. An agreement had been reached, and the man did not stay long in the cafe.

By the time Draco reached the pub, the man was waiting for him inside. Putting on a pleasant smile, he went over and sat down beside the man, who sent him a lazy smirk in greeting. An hour later, they were back in the man's loft, tasting each other's saliva and pulling off each other's clothes. After pushing the man onto the bed, Draco climbed on top of him and went in for the kill.

With one hunger sated and the other somewhat unfulfilled, Draco returned home to find a lamp lit for him in the front hall. He cast a glance at the clock mounted to the wall: it was well past eleven o'clock. Kreacher had already gone to bed, and Harry should be doing the same by now, provided that he had not gone out on another escapade.

Quiet as a ghost, Draco stole upstairs. Before he reached his room, however, Harry's voice flowed down from above. "I thought you aren't coming home tonight. Have you eaten yet?"

Draco turned around and looked up. Half shrouded in shadow, Harry was leaning over the ebony railings, watching him. Was there a detection charm on the front door to inform his landlord that someone was at the door?

"I'll grab something from the kitchen later. How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling quite good, actually. Does that sound weird?" There was a note of self-depreciation in Harry's voice. "Did you get any sleep after that?"

"I dozed off for a while." Draco lied. A montage of eyes staring at him in accusation and mouth open in a soundless scream flitted across his mind. "You should have a Healer check your shoulder. If you can't feel pain, you won't be able to tell if it's all right or not."

"Yeah, I'll do that," Harry said. For a moment, he seemed to be on the verge of saying something more. In the end, he gave Draco a distracted smile and straightened up. "I won't keep you up any longer. Good night."

"Good night."

The dark head disappeared out of sight. Light footsteps persisted for a while, ending with a soft thud of a door being closed. Having no reason to loiter in the corridor anymore, Draco returned to his room. Without bothering to turn on the light, he dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto the bed.

The pleasant air he had enveloped himself in throughout the evening was gone. Weariness clung to him like the oceanic scent of the body wash he had borrowed at the man's place. Lying on his side, he let out a breath and closed his eyes. The roughness of the man's skin lingered still in his mind, but he had already forgotten the man's name.

* * * * * * *

Days passed by in an interlocking pattern of tedium and watchfulness, and in the middle of it all, Draco turned a year older. On his birthday, there was a small celebration at the house, and he received a painting from his landlord. "Your room looks a little plain." Harry explained.

Was it meant to be both a birthday present and a token of gratitude? As Harry watched him from across the table, smiling an amiable smile, Draco swallowed his question and ate some more birthday cake.

Draco did not open the package his parents sent him until the day was almost over. Inside the package was a new coat and a letter from his mother—always from his mother, never from his father. Once he had read the letter, he put it inside the box he kept in the bottom drawer. The coat went into the darkest corner of the wardrobe, out of sight and out of mind. He did not sleep well that night, yet when dawn arrived, his routine returned to normal.

Every so often Draco had breakfast or dinner with Harry; every so often he came home late or not at all; every so often he dreamt about drowning the white fish in the bathtub. Meanwhile, Harry went on another late night outing and received a few bruises for his trouble. His sense of pain did not return.

Pain was a signal to inform a person that he should stop what he was doing and examine himself. The absence of a sense of pain was akin to crossing the desert while blindfolded, not knowing if there were scorpions lurking about or quicksand up ahead. Someday, Harry might come home with more than a few bruises and a dislocated shoulder, or he might not come home at all. 

Nevertheless, nothing could prevent Harry from going on his little excursion—nothing short of drugging him and locking him up in the dungeon, that is. Although it might be a good idea to follow him and find out what he was doing, Harry was too cautious; it would be impossible to stalk him without his noticing. Besides, Draco had neither the reason nor the urge to become too involved in his landlord's business.

One Saturday night found Draco alone in the house, lying on the bed and listening to a record in his room. Kreacher was away at Hogwarts, and Harry had gone out with his friends for once. As Draco stared at the ceiling, the thought of inviting someone over crossed his mind, but he snuffed out the idea. He was not in the mood to play.

The doorbell rang, and Draco, wondering if Harry had forgotten his key, crawled out of bed and went downstairs. When he opened the door, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger looked at him with various degree of wariness. Hermione had put on a facade of civility, but Ron glared at him in undisguised hostility. Leaning on Ron's shoulder was Harry, who seemed unsteady on his feet.

"Sorry, I can't seem to find my key," Harry mumbled before Ron elbowed Draco out of the way and carried Harry into the house. As they passed into the hall, a whiff of alcohol flowed by and distracted Draco from his annoyance.

After sending Draco an apologetic look, Hermione stepped into the house and closed the door behind her. "Harry had a few glasses, so we thought he shouldn't go home by himself. Have we disturbed you?"

"No," Draco replied, his gaze following Harry and Ron up the steps. The improvised solo of the electric guitar, accompanied by the heavy rhythm section, spilled out of Draco's room, down the stairs and into the hall.

"Can I talk to you for a moment, Malfoy?"

Turning around, Draco studied the Muggleborn witch, whose pretty visage had taken on a serious expression, and whose gaze was as sharp as the tip of the needle. "Fine. Let's talk in there." He ushered her into the living room. "What do you want?"

As if weighing on how much she should divulge to him, Hermione strolled over to the piano and opened the lid, her fingers dancing across the keyboard without making a sound. "What do you know about Harry's injuries?"

"I was under the impression that he hides them very well, particularly from you two."

A dark cloud descended upon Hermione's brow, and the composure she had maintained began to crack. "Oh, he didn't show it, but we guessed. When we asked him, he said _he fell off his broom_. I don't suppose you've seen him take the broom out while you are living here, have you?"

Draco winced. Victims of physical abuse sometimes used that particular excuse, but he suspected Harry's injuries did not stem from abuse. "You might want to interrogate his house-elf."

"Kreacher keeps his master's secret as a house-elf would, and Harry can be so adamant sometimes. We can threaten him with a pair of pincers, but that won't do much good. Since you live with him, surely you have some idea what he's like?"

"I wonder about that," Draco muttered under his breath. Aside from the superficial, how much did he know about Harry Potter? It was probably a lot less than what Hermione knew—but more than what she believed he knew.

When Hermione gave him a searching look, Draco returned to himself. "There isn't much I can tell you. He goes out at night without telling me where he's going. When he comes home, he has cuts and bruises on him, and he doesn't explain himself. That's all I know." He paused. "Anyway, I'll leave him in your capable hands."

As Draco turned to leave, Hermione's voice chased after him. "Will you promise me one thing, Malfoy? Will you look after him while you are here?"

Wrapping himself in a cloak of indifference, Draco sent a sidelong glance at Hermione, who was torn between her innate mistrust towards him and her concern for her friend. "I can't promise that. I'm just a tenant."

When Draco was back in his bedroom, he lowered the volume of the gramophone and opened the window. Cool air fluttered into the room and chased away some of the stuffiness. Sitting down at the table, Draco picked up a book and tried to read. Minutes crawled by; the next track on the album came up; he turned the page.

There was a knock on the door. Did Hermione come by to question him again? Heaving a sigh, Draco put down the book and went to the door, ready to offend his landlord's friend with a cutting remark. Nevertheless, the late night visitor was neither Hermione nor the irritable Ron Weasley.

Standing in the dimly lit corridor was Harry in his intoxicated glory: flushed cheeks, dull green eyes, and an unguarded look Draco had never seen before. His low neck T-shirt showed off more than his collar-bones. Instead of being seduced by the scenery, Draco stole a glance at the empty stairwell.

"Are you supposed to be wandering around like this? You could fall down the stairs, and I doubt you can heal your own broken neck. Where are your friends?"

"They already left. I don't want to keep them up late." Harry squinted at Draco as though he had trouble keeping his eyes focus. "It's just you and me now."

Curving his lips into a smirk, Draco leant against the door frame and regarded Harry with heavy-lidded eyes. "And here you are, standing outside my door, all dressed up for the occasion. I hope you realise that I only have one bed in here?"

Harry blinked before the corner of his mouth became a little twisted. "That's not why I'm here. I want you to cast the Cruciatus on me."

The vocalist of the band Draco had been quite taken with lately was shouting about love and death from the speakers; in the background, the droning noise of the metropolis drifted into the room through the window. No longer in the mood for flirting, Draco crossed his arms and dropped his teasing tone. "Your therapist hasn't done you much good, I see."

"I didn't tell her about the experiment. Besides, she's not going to throw a Cruciatus at me as part of the therapy." Harry held Draco in his gaze, searching for what Draco had not the slightest clue. "You are the only one I can ask."

"It's good to know that this ex-Death Eater with no moral to speak of can still be trusted to cast a Cruciatus Curse on the most famous living Auror in Great Britain," Draco said in a patronising tone, though a sullen note had seeped into his voice. "Wasn't last time supposed to be a one-time experiment?"

"It was, but I've changed my mind. I want, no, I _need_ to feel pain again."

Like water Draco's patience slipped out of his grasp and fell into the great unknown. Uncrossing his arms, he glared at his persistent landlord, but a lurking unease had latched onto him. "Many people would have given anything to live in a world without pain."

"I'm not one of those people," Harry whispered. "I'm starting to forget how it feels to be in pain. It scares me. If I can't feel pain or heat or cold, am I still human? Am I alive? Is this a dream? Are you a part of this dream? If you are not part of the dream, hurt me and make me scream."

As Draco watched the man who ought to possess the strength he lacked unravel before his eyes, something akin to anger burnt away his reason. Stepping away from the door, he jerked his head and motioned to Harry to enter the room. "I'll demand a payment from you later."

With a look of relief and satisfaction, Harry walked into the room and locked the door behind him. The clank of the lock sliding into place was as ominous and final as the green light of the Killing Curse. A moment later, the window was closed, and the gramophone was turned off. Isolated from the rest of the world, the room was so quiet Draco could hear a ringing sound in his ear. It was maddening.

After grabbing his wand from the nightstand, Draco cast the same barriers and defensive charms Harry had put up the other night: undetectable, impenetrable, and inescapable. No one else would know what happened in this room tonight. When he wheeled around to face Harry, three words fell out of Harry's mouth like words of prayer. "Make it hurt."

Narrowing his eyes, Draco shoved aside what little empathy he had, held out his wand, and spoke the forbidden word. _"Crucio!"_

Instead of slamming into the wall, Harry dropped down on his knees and convulsed on the floor like a fish out of water. His scream, overlapping with the memory of another scream echoing in another chamber, sliced through Draco's consciousness until he could hear nothing else. As Draco beheld the thrashing form of his willing victim, as he counted to thirty in his head, he wondered absently if he would be dreaming of the white fish tonight.

* * * * * * *

The grey morning arrived with a sprinkle of rain. In the kitchen by himself, Draco was eating his second slice of baguette while listening to the wireless. The host was dwelling on the history of wizarding flight, at times adding an anecdote on Muggle inventions. The show could not be more dry, but Draco needed to hear a voice other than his own.

When Draco started on his second cup of coffee, Harry came down looking pale but contented. It seemed that unlike him, his landlord had slept well last night. As their eyes met, Harry began to smile; in the next beat, the smile died away, and a flash of guilt appeared on his face.

"I'm sorry about last night."

"So am I," Draco mumbled over the rim of his cup, unable to summon forth a witty remark. The coffee he brewed did little to rouse him from his lethargy. "Rent-free for two months would be good enough as a compensation."

Harry stared at Draco for a moment before a bitter snigger escaped his mouth. "You don't beat around the bushes, do you? All right, rent-free it is then."

Two months worth of rent in exchange for a Cruciatus Curse—neither the inventor of the curse nor the Death Eaters would have guessed such a transaction was possible. The irony that it was Harry of all people who had agreed to this ridiculous exchange was not lost on Draco.

Looking away from Harry, Draco took a sip of his coffee and shot a glance at the clock hanging on the wall. It was too early an hour for any shops to open their doors—if they opened on Sundays at all. "There's hot water in the kettle. The temperature should be just right for you."

While Harry moved about by the counter, Draco shifted his position and observed his landlord. The being that yearned for pain had sunk into the depth of Harry's consciousness, dormant but not forgotten. Draco had no way of predicting when that being would rise up again and demand from him the unthinkable.

"Harry," Draco called out, and the man in question turned to him. "Do you feel alive right now?" The peaceful air Harry had enveloped himself in fell away, and what remained was the sullenness of the discontented. "I see."

With a cup of tea in hand Harry sat down and helped himself to the bread. "We are running out of bread, aren't we?" he remarked in a carefree tone, as though Draco had never asked the intrusive question in the first place. "I'll have to get some later. Is there anything you want?"

"Get yourself a _pain au chocolat_ or a box of chocolates. It'll make you feel better."

When Draco saw the ruefulness on Harry's face, he fell silent. _Your heart is hurting. Doesn't that mean you are still human and still alive?_ Nevertheless, he kept the thought to himself and sipped his coffee. Nothing good would come of plunging further into the bloody mess that was Harry Potter's life...

"I'll get one for you too." Harry's voice stirred Draco out of his musing.

"Uh, okay," Draco replied, even though he was not fond of chocolate. It brought back too many unsavoury memories. "I'm going out later today. Don't wait up."

Harry made a sound in acknowledgement, wet his lips, and munched on the bread. Did he guess where his tenant would be going or what he would be doing? Draco observed Harry Potter, the thorn of his adolescence and something else entirely since then.

In this spotless kitchen on this gloomy morning, he with his messy hair and absentminded look was more desirable than the glorified portraits painted in unauthorised biographies and history books. When Draco felt a stirring inside him, he averted his gaze, raised the cup to his lips, and listened to the radio host quote from a book: of falling into the starry sky only to be held back by the force of gravity.

* * * * * * *

The sultry weather put the city under a spell and drove people to the brink of their patience. In the cafe where Draco worked, iced latte became the most popular beverage among the customers. One of his co-workers had not been keen on adding iced latte to the menu. Draco, on the other hand, did not care either way, for other things had occupied his mind.

A letter from his mother came to him the other day, asking him to come home for a visit. In the polite but distant tone he had learnt from his father, Draco claimed that work had taken up much of his time, and therefore, he would not be able to pay her a visit. The lie was so obvious his mother would see through it in a heartbeat, but in the end she would feign ignorance and accept the excuse.

The other incident, however, happened so close to home that he could not ignore it. Harry came home the other night, limping and bleeding all over the carpet—the first time Draco had seen him hurt so badly. As expected, Kreacher was beside himself, but Harry, his face smeared with blood, smiled in that boyish way of his and said very little in his own defence.

Draco had an inkling what was on Harry's mind, and he did not like it at all. If a day came when Harry did not come home at all, was he supposed to believe that whatever happened to Harry would be on his conscience? Should he have stopped Harry from drowning when he himself was barely floating on the surface?

When his shift ended, Draco left the cafe and joined his fellow pedestrians on the street. The air was stagnant, and it reeked of the stench of the city. The sun continued to blaze with vehemence, as though declaring the day would never end. A short walk took Draco to a place where he could Apparate. Holding his breath, he dove into the dirty alley and Apparated back to the house.

In the haven that was 12 Grimmauld Place, Draco climbed the stairs and found his door ajar. A strand of music trickled out of his room and into his ear. Annoyed with this obvious violation of privacy, he pushed the door wide open and saw the intruder browsing his bookshelf. When he knocked on the door, Harry turned around and gave him a sheepish look.

"Sorry, I was wondering what you were listening to the other night." Harry switched off the gramophone and slipped the record back into its jacket. "This band is quite good, isn't it? And you have quite a collection of Muggle novels here. There's even one of my favourites."

Brushing aside Harry's comment, Draco closed the door and dropped his bag on the floor. "You don't have much respect for other people's privacy, do you? What do you want this time? I hope it doesn't involve puking or bleeding all over my floor."

A hint of wryness played about Harry's lips. In the next beat, a curious expression took over his visage. "I want to ask you something." There was a pause. "Did you enjoy casting the Cruciatus Curse on me?"

His eyes narrowed in agitation, Draco tensed up in an instant. "If you mean whether or not I had an erection while you were thrashing around in pain, the answer is no."

"That's not what I meant." Harry stalked towards Draco, who could not shake the feeling that he was a fish caught in a net. "Bellatrix Lestrange told me that in order to hold the Cruciatus Curse for a long time, you must have a desire to hurt. You must enjoy it."

The unexpected mention of his sadistic aunt made Draco frown. The vision of a pureblood witch born with a pure black heart flashed in his mind like a coffee stain on a pure white cloth. He had never liked her, and he felt more relieved than sad over her death at the hands of Ron Weasley's mother.

"Since when did my psychopathic Aunt Bella become the authority of the Cruciatus Curse? Have you considered the possibility that she was messing with your head?"

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched, though Draco could not tell if the reaction stemmed from distaste or loathing or something else. "Of course I have, but I don't think she's totally wrong about this. When I used the Cruciatus on someone, I couldn't hold the curse for more than a few seconds. If I were to do it now, I think I could hold it longer." 

Crossing his arms, Draco squinted at Harry, who was rubbing his bandaged arm, as if confirming whether or not the bandages were still there. "Do you enjoy inflicting pain now?"

Harry looked up at Draco; his green eyes were like sea glass, frosted and dull. "I don't know, but I would wish I'm the one thrashing on the floor, howling in pain." He flashed Draco a smile, and the tension dissipated. "That came out wrong, didn't it?"

"You've always been a little odd," Draco mumbled. "To answer your question, I did what was necessary, nothing more."

"That's what I thought. I guess I owe you an apology. I was only thinking about myself, and it hadn't occurred to me that the Cruciatus might have reminded you of the past."

The sound of water flooded Draco's mind, and if he were to close his eyes, he could see the high ceiling and the crystal chandelier, always out of reach. "Does that mean you won't be knocking on my door at two in the morning and asking me to make you scream?"

"Something like that." There was no conviction in Harry's voice.

"What you need right now is a distraction," Draco declared before taking a step forward, closing the distance between him and his landlord, who stared at him in that unperturbed way of his.

How could someone who had put up countless defensive charms in his house be so unguarded at this moment, Draco thought as he brushed his lips against Harry's. When he encountered no resistance, he held Harry by the back of his head and kissed him again, lingering just long enough to taste something sweet in Harry's mouth.

Looking upon Harry once more, Draco allowed himself a little smirk and grazed his fingers over the tip of Harry's hair: nothing as soft as the raven feathers it resembled. "You are supposed to curse me and run out of the room by now."

Humour glinted in Harry's eyes, though it was accompanied by a strange expression Draco could not decipher. "I didn't receive the script for this particular scene."

"You should fire your manager, or better yet, get another script." Draco moved away from Harry, hauled his bag onto the table, and laid out his dirty uniform to be washed. "You can borrow my books and records, but if I find a scratch on a record or a stain in a book, I'll hex you."

"You are being terribly nice to me these days. Should I be on the lookout for an ambush soon?"

"Who knows. Maybe I'll slip into your room in the middle of the night and give you a taste of heaven," Draco joked, which elicited a chuckle from Harry.

In the end, nothing was resolved. In spite of his best attempt at self-restraint, as long as Harry had not regained his sense of pain, he could slip further into the abyss; and someday, the rope he was dangling from would snap under the pressure.

While Harry took out a hard-boiled novel from the ebony bookshelf, Draco cast him a sidelong glance and envisioned his fate: a bloodied corpse in the back alley, a mad man locked away in a white hospital room, or a prisoner in shackles pacing about in his dingy cell.

* * * * * * *

Time moved in slow motion, as though the gears in the clock had rusted. There were two things that reminded Draco of the passage of time: pay-days, and the constant influx of new books and vinyl records in the house. Taking Draco's advice to heart, Harry filled his time with various trifles to distract himself from his brooding.

One evening, Harry tried to play _Scarborough Fair_ on the piano with little success. The next evening, he made a treacle tart under Kreacher's guidance; the result was pleasant enough that Draco had a slice. The evening after that, he reorganised all the books in the library. Although he had not gone out late at night and gotten hurt again, Draco could tell he was restless.

When Draco got home one humid evening, he found a familiar figure sitting cross-legged on the floor in his room, listening to some kind of alternative rock. Once Draco had changed his clothes, he sat down beside his landlord and stretched his legs. Accompanied by the throbbing bass and the distorted guitar, a baritone voice was urging the listeners to seize the day.

"I'm on active duty again." Harry's voice disrupted the flow of the music. "Two of my co-workers have resigned. They said they want to move on to something new and do what they really want to do. I'm happy for them, but I'm feeling a little lonely as well."

Such sentimentality was not what Draco would expect from Harry; then again, his landlord was not as heartless as he was. "If you weren't an Auror, what do you think you would be now?"

Harry tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling in search of an answer. "I hadn't really thought about it. At the time, the Auror's Office was the only option left. If I become an Auror, I would be able to fight better and stay alive longer." He turned to Draco. "Which career did you pick back then?"

Ignoring Harry's gaze, Draco picked up the album jacket on the floor and examined the cover art. A neon blue mannequin head in a fedora hat made up the foreground, while wires dangled like miniature nooses at the back. "I don't remember. A male escort, maybe."

Harry sniggered for a moment and stretched out his legs like Draco. "Someone who attends important dinner parties with a client, or someone who works his magic in the bedroom?"

"I'll leave that to your imagination." Draco put the album jacket aside. "Are you feeling better now that you can officially hunt someone down and curse him into oblivion?"

The mirth on Harry's countenance faded, and his smile became a little crooked. "I don't know. It's great to be out there again, but I'm afraid of what I might do. It's not about justice or even vengeance. It's... I don't know what it is."

"Does it matter? No matter what your motive is, you are still doing the same thing." Draco did not meet Harry's eyes; instead, he stared at the wall, which was dyed greyish blue by the evening light. "If you catch someone, and if you can get away with it, are you going to make him suffer?"

"I won't know until it actually happens." His voice laced with uncertainty, Harry leant towards Draco until the side of his head touched Draco's. "Sorry, can you distract me right now?"

"Like last time?"

"Yes." Harry raised his head and contemplated Draco, as if yearning for something he could not quite understand. "Like last time."

Several experimental kisses later, Draco held Harry's hand and invited him to sit in his lap. After giving him a withering look, Harry shifted onto his lap and reclaimed his mouth. Slipping a hand inside Harry's T-shirt, Draco felt his way around the lean back and explored uncharted territory. A shiver coursed through Harry's body; a beat later, he licked the tip of Draco's Cupid's bow like a kitten.

 _More like a wild cat,_ Draco thought while gently sucking Harry's bottom lip. Although the house was equipped with a cooling charm, he felt too warm. Everything about Harry was too warm: his face, his breath, his mouth, his tongue, his body. He was suffocating.

Breaking away from the kiss, Draco gazed upon Harry's flushed cheeks, moist lips and lustrous eyes, tell-tale signs that in spite of his insensitivity to pain, he could feel pleasure. "Are you properly distracted now?"

Harry said nothing; instead, he blew air into Draco's ear and embraced him tightly.

At any moment, Kreacher would have called them down for dinner, but the call never came. There was no sneaky house-elf lurking outside the open door and spying on his master having sex with a man on the floor. At the other end of the room, the needle of the gramophone had already reached the end of the album, and a faint noise remained. All Draco could hear, however, were his heart pounding in his chest and Harry panting beneath him.

Looking down upon his landlord, who wore nothing but a T-shirt hiked up to his chest, Draco had an urge to curse himself. He had not meant for the distraction to go this far; he had not known it was Harry's first time being penetrated. Staying still inside Harry, he asked, "Does it hurt?"

As though he had tumbled back to reality, Harry squinted at Draco for several beats and shook his head. "Do it the way you like. Be rough if you want. I won't break."

Unable to find his voice, Draco nodded once, placed his hands on either side of Harry's waist, and began to move. With every thrust something inside him broke a little, but he could not stop moving. The sound of Harry's stifled moaning flooded his ear; the taste of Harry's fluid lingered in his mouth; the sight of Harry's body shaking with his filled his vision. As he pushed deeper into Harry and felt him shudder, a dull ache spread outward from his core like a disease.

* * * * * * *

The room was dark as if it were at the bottom of the sea, yet Draco, feeling unwell for reasons he could not recall, could see everything around him. In the middle of the room, the bathtub, which reminded him of a white whale, had taken on a ghost-like presence in the dark. He walked over and looked down, but there was no dead fish floating in the cold water, for he was that fish.

Slowly he climbed into the bathtub and sank into the water like a merman. However, no part of his body made contact with the porcelain lining of the tub; there was nothing but water all around him, enveloping him and rushing into him. No sound reached his ear: no one was screaming or shouting or biting back a cry out of stubborn, meaningless pride.

Death by drowning was an excruciating way to die, but soon he would lose consciousness and never wake again—and just like that, he had killed the white fish in his dream again.

Draco woke up to a hazy night and to a naked body press up against his back. There was an unpleasant stickiness at the spots where their bodies touched, as though their skins were melting and fusing together until their bodies could no longer be separated. Feeling Harry's warm breaths on his back, Draco lay still and wondered what the hell was wrong with both of them.

 _Everything is wrong about you two,_ a sardonic voice replied in Draco's head. Harry's vices were getting hurt without feeling pain and receiving pain without getting hurt, while Draco himself had too many vices to count. Between a man who was struggling to feel alive and a man who was only beginning to learn how to live, there was no use in pondering what was not wrong about them.

Without a sound Draco extracted himself from Harry and moved to the edge of the bed. In the next moment, he found himself thrown back onto the bed and his upper body pinned down by Harry. When he felt the tip of a wand poking at his head, any indecent jokes he had entertained was tossed aside.

"Are you going to curse me, Harry?"

The pressure on Draco's chest was gone, and the gas lamp flickered to life. Avoiding Draco's gaze, Harry sat on the bed and put down his wand. "Sorry."

Draco sat up and rubbed his neck. As soon as the choking sensation on his throat vanished, his annoyance evaporated. There was little doubt in his mind as to why Harry was so experienced in close combat: the answer did not lie solely in Auror training. The scars Harry had received in his late night excursions were still visible.

"I didn't tell you about the knife under the mattress, did I?" Draco ignored the surprise on Harry's face and went on in a nonchalant tone. "You can't be too careful when you are on your own. Still, it hurts quite a bit here." He pressed a hand over his heart, feigning agony.

His lips curving into a smile, Harry patted the back of Draco's hand in solace. "Do you want me to massage it and kiss it to make you feel better?"

"If you want to touch my heart, you'll have to cut me open and saw through my ribcage first." The gruesome joke prompted Harry to grimace in disgust and amusement.

Turning away, Draco reached for the jar of ointment on the nightstand. "Bend over." When Harry shot him an indignant look, he let out a sigh. "Since you can't tell me if there's anything wrong with you, I need to check."

"I feel shagged and I feel fine. You don't need to keep playing Healer with me." Harry took the semi-transparent jar from Draco and squinted at it. "Are you hungry? You haven't eaten anything since you came back, have you?"

In Harry's hand, the round blue jar resembled an artefact carved from a fragment of the frozen sea. For one bemusing moment, Draco wondered if he was still trapped in the embracing water in his dream, suffocating and hallucinating. "I was busy distracting you and being distracted by you."

Harry blinked. A beat later, he looked away as if struck by a fit of shyness. In an attempt to disguise his discomfort, he put on his glasses and got out of Draco's bed. "Let's hope Kreacher left us some food in the kitchen."

* * * * * * *

As rain lashed down upon the city in torrents, the scorching heat at last relented. In the midst of these idle rainy days, Harry celebrated his twenty-third birthday—the same bittersweet age as Draco. At the crack of dawn, Draco gave Harry one of the presents; at night, he went up to Harry's room and gave him another present; in the morning, Harry smiled a bashful smile at him.

After that, Harry began to come home late, at times covered in dust or soaked to the skin. While he rarely talked about work when he was home, Draco found out from the _Daily Prophet_ what kind of case he was working on. A series of unspecified incidents had occurred in several former homes of convicted Death Eaters, and the Aurors were brought in to investigate. The article did not mention the Malfoys or Malfoy Manor.

Once Draco had read the article twice, he folded up the newspaper, put it on the table, and looked out the window. Dark clouds hung low over houses and buildings, as if with a slight push, they would tumble onto the roofs. When Draco turned on the lamp and looked again, he saw his reflection mouthing something to him.

"Why are you worrying about them now? You abandoned them in the manor and ran away to this city, remember? After everything that had happened, you just couldn't bear staying in the manor anymore..."

The voice trailed off in a dispassionate note; a beat later, Draco went over and closed the curtains, hiding his other self from view. A recurring dream of fish and drowning, casual sex with random men, a conversation with his own reflection—he had gone mad even before he stepped foot into this house.

Harry would not be home for dinner; therefore, Draco had dinner by himself in the kitchen. The fish pie Kreacher had made was a golden, brilliant affair, though the chef in question had gone off somewhere. While Draco ate, he listened to the clock ticking the second. Across the table, the empty seat stood out in silent mockery. Annoyed with himself, he finished the meal, but the food had lost its texture and flavour.

After a quick shower, he took a book from the library and returned to his room. Settling down on the bed, he began to read. During the scene where the detective was questioning a witness, drowsiness overcame him. Every time he nodded, the book in his hand grew a little heavier. Strands of the plot swam in his mind and knitted themselves into another pattern: he knew who the real murderer was.

As soon as the revelation took shape, however, it melted into the background, for something else had surfaced from the deepest recess of his memory.

Floating in a state between sleep and wakefulness, he was both recalling and dreaming of a scene from the past: the sound of water, the chill, the glittering chandelier, and at last, blissful silence. That was where the scene diverged from his usual dream. Someone dragged him out of the water and called his name. He shivered, and the chill was replaced by warmth. When he looked upon his father's stricken face, the trembling stopped, and an impulse unlocked something inside him...

A loud disturbance jolted Draco out of his half-dream; the book slipped out of his grasp and fell onto the blanket, forgotten. He rubbed his face, got out of bed, and went to the corridor. Voices from below drifted into his ear. Kreacher was scolding someone, and Harry said something in reply. A third voice, which belonged to Ron Weasley, chimed in with a joke.

Struck by a sense of déjà vu, Draco went downstairs and beheld a scene he had half expected. In the front hall, Kreacher had cornered Harry. Behind Harry's glasses was an eye patch that covered up his right eye; around his head were bandages that covered up his brow. At the sight, Draco stood still halfway down the stairs, and something inside him began to crack.

Ron, who was standing closest to the door, shot Draco a dirty look before turning to Harry.

"I'm off now. You know how scary Hermione can be when something irritates her." Ron made a face, prompting Harry to chuckle in good cheer. "Get some sleep and leave the rest to us, all right? Now Kreacher, stop worrying about your master. Since Voldemort couldn't kill him, nothing else will."

 _Except Harry Potter,_ Draco added as he watched Ron vanish into the night.

"Like Ron said, you don't have to worry about me, Kreacher. I'm used to getting injured. This is nothing." Before Kreacher could launch into another lecture, Harry continued. "You know what? It's late, and I don't really need anything. If you want to, you can go to bed."

After making a huffing sound, Kreacher bowed to Harry and shuffled down the hall. Once he had disappeared into the kitchen, Draco descended the rest of the steps and met Harry at the bottom of the stairs. The smile had vanished from Harry's face, which had taken on a sickly pallor.

Heaving a sigh, Draco stifled his agitation and tapped on Harry's glasses. "What is it this time?"

"I was careless on the job," Harry said in a self-depreciating tone. "You know what dark witches and wizards are like. Their houses are like museums of dark artefacts, complete with death traps and murderous creatures."

Even though Harry's injury did not stem from a fight, the disclosure did not lift Draco's mood. "Were you careless on purpose?" There was no reply. Instead of asking further, he waved his hand in front of Harry. "Can you see me?"

"Yeah, but it's difficult to judge the distance," Harry replied, looking amused. "My right eye will take a while to heal, so I'm on medical leave again. The cut on my forehead isn't as serious as it looks. It'll probably heal in a day or two."

"It's good to know that there's nothing wrong with your head, at least in the literal sense." Draco grabbed Harry by his hand and led him upstairs. "What you need right now is a shower and a change of clothes. You look as if you've just crawled out of the grave."

"I lied. It wasn't because of a dark artefact."

Draco stopped in his tracks, and his fingers tightened around Harry's hand; nevertheless, Harry would not complain about the pain he could not feel. Without an expression Draco turned around to face Harry.

Beneath the gaslight, the whiteness of Harry's eye patch and bandages burnt into Draco's retinas. Harry's clothes were caked with blood, mud and other substance Draco could not identify. The only part of Harry that was in a less alarming state was his dark hair, which appeared to be washed and a little damp. He resembled the wounded soldier that he was, but his countenance could not be more composed.

"I duelled with a dark wizard," came the answer to Draco's unspoken query. "When I hurt him and when he hurt me, I was happy. I felt so alive I didn't want it to end. When he threw the Cruciatus at me, I almost wanted him to hit me, but my body moved out of the way on its own. Too bad that Ron and the others showed up so soon. We could have gone on longer."

Tension stretched in the space between Draco and Harry, held together by their connected hands. "What do you expect me to say?" Draco demanded.

The self-possession Harry had adopted began to crumble, and with a morose look he pulled his hand out of Draco's grasp. "Nothing. Don't do anything for me anymore. You are wasting your time. If you want to move out of the house, I won't stop you. I'll return all the money to you. If you are in a hurry to leave, I'll ask around and help you find another place."

No longer looking at Draco, Harry brushed past him and went upstairs; a while later, his footsteps faded into silence. Biting the inside of his cheek, Draco returned to his room, sat down on the bed, and stared at the open door.

The thought of leaving the house had occurred to Draco before. Any sane person would have left the house by now. For him, the most appropriate course of action would be to move out, start afresh elsewhere, and chuck these past few months up as little more than a brief bout of insanity. As for the money, he would make do somehow. It was not too late for him, he told himself.

Cutting ties with Harry would be as easy as walking out of this house without a backward glance. After all, Draco had done this in the past, and he could do it again. There was no reason for him to stay, no reason for him to drown with Harry, and no reason for him to share in Harry's delusion.

Nevertheless, why was it that the air in this room was more stifling than usual?

Draco stormed out of the room and climbed the stairs. In the dimness of the night, the staircase seemed crooked and endless. Struck by a spell of vertigo, he clutched the ebony handrail and looked up; faint light flickered above him. After taking several deep breaths, he pressed on. Each step became a little easier than the last. At each landing, the voice of reason in his head grew a little weaker. Another thirteen steps later, he reached the end of the spiral.

The sound of running water flowed into his ear. Not bothering to knock, Draco barged into the bathroom; the door bounced against the wall with a thud. Dirty clothes were scattered across the ashen tiled floor, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses was left on the black vanity top. At the other end of the room, Harry stared at him in shock through the shower stall glass.

Without a word Draco closed the door, strode across the room, and stepped into the stall, fully clothed. Drops of cold water splashed onto his face. It was not unexpected that Harry would choose to take a cold shower. Was it because of the season, or was it because he did not care about the water temperature since he could not tell the difference? Reaching over Harry, Draco fiddled with the knobs until warm water came out of the shower head.

A strange expression flitted onto Harry's face: surprise, bewilderment, doubt, scrutiny, craving, all of the above or none of the above. As Draco's gaze trailed down Harry's body—scarred skin stretched across lean muscles—he caught sight of the white bandages around Harry's leg: a wound he knew nothing about.

Draco understood Harry was under no obligation to tell him everything. In the same vein, he had rarely, if ever, told Harry much about himself. Even though they had slept together, Harry was only his landlord, and he was only Harry's tenant. Their trust for each other was limited to casual conversation, one-sided confession, the giving of pain, and the exchange of pleasure. And yet...

"Draco—"

"If I shouldn't do anything for you, I'll do something for myself." Draco peered into Harry's eye and imagined seeing his own face reflected in its depth. "I want you. Here. Now. Or you can finish what you started the other day and choke me to death."

Harry gave him a long, hard look. Several beats later, he grabbed Draco by his shirt and kissed him. Without skipping a beat, Draco shoved him against the glass wall and forced his legs apart. Warm water rained down on Draco's back and soaked his clothes, but all his senses were directed at Harry. What he hungered for right now was not just sex. He wanted Harry, this man who wanted to be hurt, and he wanted him so badly it hurt.

With the urgency of a man dying of thirst, Draco sucked Harry's tongue. His breathing quickened, Harry ensnared Draco in his arms and tangled their tongues together. It was not enough, Draco thought, not nearly enough. Reaching behind Harry, he slid his fingers into the crack between Harry's cheeks; he was rewarded with a squirm and a low, purring noise. When they drew apart for air before locking their lips together again, Harry slipped his hand into Draco's trousers and took away the last of Draco's self-control.

They spent the entire night making love like animals who knew they would die tomorrow. After they did it once in the shower, they returned to Harry's room, rested for a while, and did it again on the bed.

Did Harry have an insatiable desire for him that night? Was he trying to feel alive using the most basic method? Was he looking for a distraction from his dark thoughts? Was he letting himself loose because there might not be a next time? Draco did not know the answer anymore. What he knew was that he and Harry were out of control—and he had no intention of stopping either of them from sinking.

With his uninjured leg hooked around Draco, Harry swayed his hips in time to Draco's rhythm. His expression was that of an addict high on his favourite drug. "Be rough to me," he panted out in plea. "Hurt me, Draco. I want to feel you."

Drawn into the dark pupil of Harry's glistening green eye, Draco did not remember whether or not he had complied with the request, for everything after that became a blur of heat and sweat and sighs and entwined bodies and pleasure mingling with pain.

* * * * * * *

In the morning, Draco left Harry sleeping on the bed and ventured outside. The air was mild with a touch of dew, and a light breeze chased away some of his lethargy. Beneath the hazy violet-blue sky, the street was quiet and deserted as always. It was as though someone had cast a spell over this forgotten part of the metropolis. The impression might not be far from the truth, for there were two wizards and a house-elf living in a house that did not exist on any map.

Rounding the corner, Draco reached the telephone box. Once he stepped inside, he fished out a coin from his pocket and called his boss at the cafe.

When the call ended, Draco hung up and let out a tired sigh. He had lied about having a family emergency in order to request for a day off, though whether or not his boss believed the story was another matter altogether. After what happened last night, he did not want to leave Harry on his own with only a house-elf for company.

Raindrops splattered without warning against the side of the telephone box. The sound reminded Draco of the scene in the shower last night: damp black hair, hands pressing on the misted glass, and a naked back almost as slippery as a fish. A sense of restlessness washed over him, but it had nothing to do with lust. He should go now; Harry was waiting at home.

In Harry's monastic bedroom, a wooden tray containing two sets of full breakfast was placed on the bed. Propped against the headboard, Harry ate a sausage with the appetite of someone who had woken from a long sleep. When Draco entered the room, Harry looked up and smiled; his bloodless face brought a pang of guilt to Draco's heart.

"Did I wake you up when I left? You should have gone back to sleep."

"I'll sleep later." Weariness dripped out of Harry's voice. "You should eat quickly, or you'll be late for work."

"I have a day off today, and I intend to spend it right here." Sitting down on the bed, Draco stared at the heaps of food on the tray and frowned. While Kreacher was never stingy with regard to food, today's serving was even more generous than usual.

"Is this what you always do after a long night?" Harry joked. Draco chose not to answer. Several beats later, Harry spoke again. "How's your..." He tapped on the right side of his neck.

In Draco's mind, the kiss mark he had seen in the mirror surfaced to the forefront: a purple bruise that stood out on his skin like the Dark Mark. If the culprit had been another man, Draco would have kicked him in the crotch. Harry, on the other hand, was a better fighter than he was, and it was never wise to attack a somewhat paranoid and somewhat unstable Auror.

"It doesn't hurt much. I'll put some ointment on it later. How are your wounds?"

"Kreacher helped me change the bandages. Everything seems to be all right." Harry reached for his cup, but he fumbled around for a beat or two before he managed to grab hold of it.

 _How much more damage can your body take before it breaks down?_ Draco wondered as he fixed his gaze upon Harry's eye patch. Agitated, he poured himself some tea. "I'm fine with rough sex once in a while, but it won't be much fun for either of us if I make you bleed."

There was a dazed look on Harry's face. "Oh, right. I couldn't tell if you were rough or not. I just thought it felt good and I wanted you to—" Overcome by embarrassment, he held the cup with both hands and took a sip of his tea. "That sounded odd, didn't it?" he muttered.

"Not really. I've heard stranger things."

"I'm sure you've heard many interesting stories while living in London." Harry stole a glance at Draco. "For someone who was raised in a pureblood family, you are adjusting surprisingly well on your own in the Muggle world."

"You do what you have to do to survive, that's all," Draco heard himself say.

In languor Harry shifted his legs beneath the blanket. "Perhaps I was wrong about you. You are hardier than you look, and you aren't all messed up like me."

The sound of water trickled into Draco's ear. Turning away from Harry, he looked out the window, beyond which was the storm grey sky; not a patch of blue or a tip of a roof was in sight. The window was open, and the noise he was hearing was only the sound of rain.

"I'm just better at hiding things. When you are busy trying to live and sleeping around, you don't think much about anything."

Without observing Harry's reaction, Draco picked up the fork and the knife. The pile of meat on his plate was an alarming sight to behold. "It appears Kreacher is trying to boost my energy so that I can keep you happy all day long," he drawled.

Harry chuckled, yet he seemed distracted by something else. "I'm sure he meant well for both of us. After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"House-elves can be such a meddlesome lot—not that I'm complaining." His stomach whining in hunger, Draco sliced the sausage into little pieces. "I like Kreacher's cooking, I like living here, and I like you. I'm not going to move out of the house."

The pitter-patter of rain grew so loud that Draco could not hear the clink of his knife striking the plate. Nevertheless, the noise gave him some comfort, for it drowned out the feeble voice of reason in his head. After putting down his fork and knife, he regarded Harry and waited for an answer.

With his lucid green eye Harry gazed at Draco, as if longing to hypnotise him and longing to be hypnotised. At length, he took a shaky breath and put down his cup. "I see." Those words came out as little more than a whisper.

A pregnant silence descended upon the room; seconds ticked by. When Harry stirred awake from his musing and let out a breath, the pensive mood passed on without resistance. "Maybe I should add a house rule: Do not attack the landlord in the shower."

"Well, I don't mind if you attack me in the shower instead," Draco said in jest, and in response Harry gave him a look of feigned indignation. "I've always had an affinity with water."

Raindrops had drenched the window sill and a section of the floor, but no one bothered to close the window. It was raining inside and outside this bare, spacious room, and the rain showed no sign of letting up any time soon.

* * * * * * *

Summer waned in a murmur of rain. Having recovered from his injury, Harry returned to active duty once more. On certain nights and on certain mornings, he would come down to Draco's room, or Draco would go up to his room. Every so often Harry left marks on Draco's skin or wanted him to be rough in bed. Every so often Draco misjudged how much Harry's body could take and ended up hurting him.

What Harry was doing was akin to substituting pleasure for pain, one drug for another. Although he had not mentioned the Cruciatus Curse or gotten seriously injured again, Draco could tell the thought of receiving pain and getting hurt haunted him at times. Likewise, Draco could not stop dreaming about drowning the white fish in the bathtub. However, there was a slight change to Draco's routine: Harry had become the only cure to his hunger.

In the meantime, Draco had learnt other things about Harry. For instance, Harry had a tendency to curl up on his side while he slept. When Draco asked him about it, Harry mumbled about how, as a child, he used to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. Since he sounded sleepy when he said it, Draco was not sure if the reply was a joke or the truth.

Talking about nothing important, listening to records, sharing Kreacher's delectable concoction, taking a stroll on the empty street, joking around, making love—those hours Draco spent with Harry was like an eerie dream that could descend into a nightmare in a heartbeat.

* * * * * * *

As the harvest season loomed over the country, green foliage became tinted with red and orange. The cafe was selling apple pastries, and pumpkins were on display in various shops. The green apples Draco had brought home were baked into an apple pie by Kreacher. When Ron and Hermione came to visit, Ron ended up polishing off most of the pie by himself. As an apology Harry brought back more apples and treated Draco to an apple-flavoured kiss.

On the afternoon a certain someone walked into the cafe, a light drizzle enveloped the city in a gentle embrace. Dressed in a black suit, Harry took a seat in a corner and smiled at Draco, though his smile seemed strained. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his black tie was loosened. However pleasant a sight Harry's bare throat was, Draco knew he had gone to the funeral of a retired Auror that morning—suicide, or so he heard.

After placing a cup of latte on the table, Draco studied Harry's face, but he could find no traces of tears being shed. A beat later, it occurred to him that this was the first time Harry came to the cafe. "A rather gloomy day, isn't it?"

"It's worse over there." Harry gave Draco a quick smile in gratitude and took the cup. "I want to try the coffee you have been boasting about, and..." There was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I want to see you in your uniform. The apron looks good on you."

With a faint smile playing about his lips, Draco held up a corner of his black apron like a dancer about to take a curtsy. "I can wear this at home if you like." His co-worker coughed somewhere off to the side, and Draco dropped the playful tone. "Are you going home after this?"

"I have to take care of something at the office first, but it shouldn't take too long." In undisguised wonder Harry peered at the white angel floating on the surface of a sea of coffee. "There's no magic involved here, is there?"

"In the sense as you and I know it? No. It took me a while to master this the old-fashioned way."

"Don't you think the old-fashioned way is far more impressive? I like it better this way." Raising the cup to his lips, Harry drank a mouthful, and the furrow on his brow disappeared at last. "It's delicious. It must taste even better if I can feel how warm it is." Wistfulness flashed onto his face, but it was gone in the next beat. "I should've come by sooner."

"It's good enough that you are here now," Draco whispered.

Taken aback, Harry stared at Draco for a moment before turning away, his eyes downcast. The angel in the cup had lost its legs, and the rest of its body was dissolving like a certain lovelorn mermaid at daybreak. "Too bad that this doesn't last very long."

"A latte is meant to be drunk, or there would be no meaning. I can make you another one if you want. You'll have to pay for the second cup too, of course."

Harry let out a snigger. "Is this a marketing ploy?"

"Why, you found me out." Draco shrugged his shoulders. Their little exchange was so ordinary that it could have been lifted from any love story, yet their relationship was built upon something a little warped and a little disquieting. "I should get back to work. Take your time."

"Yeah, I'll take my time and relax."

Draco smiled a wry smile and left Harry to his own devices. Business was as usual that afternoon: a handful of people drifted in and out of the cafe at regular intervals. However, something was a little different that day. Filtered through the clouds and the rain, grey light streamed into the cafe and softened the edge of reality.

After bringing a cappuccino to a customer, Draco cast a glance at the man sitting in the corner. Seated in front of the monochrome landscape mural, Harry, in his black suit, seemed to be on the verge of melting into the painting. When their eyes met, Harry gave Draco a boyish smile and a little wave, but beneath the charming surface lay a shadow of unrest.

Even though Draco was not a Seer, he could picture the scene that would unfold later that night: Harry's naked body moving on the bed, his lips murmuring a plea for pain and hurt and pleasure, and his green eyes gazing at Draco as though beholding a delirious dream. Nevertheless, Draco also knew that he would silence Harry before a word could tumble out of his mouth.

In the dead of night, Draco would dream he had returned to a certain room in Malfoy Manor, and the sound of water would flood his ear. Unable to resist the temptation, he would climb into the little white boat of death and dive into the cold water. Muffled silence would soon transform into the sighs of rain outside the window, and beyond the aquatic dream, he would feel Harry press up against him.

As voices of the present drifted into his ear, Draco let the thought sink to the bottom of the sea, drew a deep breath, and returned to Harry's side.

* * * * * * *

_Finis._

**Author's Note:**

> Please return to [LIVEJOURNAL ](http://hd-hurtfest.livejournal.com/)to leave a comment there. Feel free to leave a comment here, too. :)
> 
> A/N: With this story, I feel as if I'm flirting with a piece of broken glass, which is fitting, since the story is inspired by the music of Japanese rock band, Buck-Tick. In a sense, Draco and Harry have run into each other at the worst possible time.
> 
> The condition Harry refers to is called stress-induced analgesia, though I take much liberty with regard to Harry's actual condition. In the scene where Draco is listening to the wireless, the host is quoting from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's memoir, _Wind, Sand and Stars_.
> 
> As Draco has said, his relationship with Harry is a rather twisted form of romance. Perhaps he believes they couldn't save each other, that all they can do is to slow each other's descent while holding each other close. Is it a good thing or a bad thing? I'll leave it for you to decide. Thank you very much for reading.


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